I stand at the rim of a canyon
The rock walls sheer below me,
the bottom miles down, the far edge
distant, I couldn’t throw a rock
halfway across. But I must cross.
There is a plague, a monster, an army
Behind me. I can smell the sickness,
Feel the hunger of the beast, hear
The march of the brigade. And, there is
A treasure on the far rim, not riches, but
Warmth, solace, a small peace. I can
Feel it, too, like the scent of a lilac bush, or
A breath of heat from a fire made of
Pine and hope and devotion*. I must
Cross. But there’s no bridge, the walls
Are slick, I have no wings. I must cross.
How? It doesn’t matter that I have no wings.
I’ll close my eyes, breathe, leap
And in just a moment I’ll be across.
I close my eyes, breathe, but I don’t leap.
I realize, I have to make wings. I will
Fall to my death without them. But,
From what? There’s nothing, only sand,
Rock, some clinging prickly plants. Well,
They will do. I set to work. I collect
The tiny prickly leaves, mix the sand
With the sap that leaks from their stems,
Make a glue, paste the leaves together,
Sprinkle it with shining silver dust from
The rocks as I go (it makes them stronger).
I work and work, the plague approaches,
I sense the monster, the army shakes the ground.
But the wings must be perfect. I work more,
Careful, concentrating, gluing, pressing.
The smell of sickness wafts over me,
I hear the monster’s roar, dust from the army
Billows past me when it’s finally time to try on
My wings. They’re light, fragrant from
The plants, shimmering in the sun. They’re
Perfect. The monster’s stinking breath crawls
Across my neck, an arrow whistles over my head,
My throat itches from the plague. I close
My eyes, breathe, spread my wings, and leap.